


Counterpoint

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Christmas, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Day drinking, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Humor, Home winemaking, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Wagers, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nipple Play, Porn with Feelings, Quatrains, Relationship Advice, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Smut and Longing, Tercets, Touch-Starved, Winter Solstice, drunk conversation, holiday visits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: coun·ter·point/ˈkoun(t)ərˌpoint/1. Musicthe art or technique of setting, writing, or playing a melody or melodies in conjunction with another, according to fixed rules.Anathema extended her arm imperiously, empty glass in her hand. Crowley glugged in another tot of the metheglin.“Dunno when I started to want him. Like this.”“Like…?”“Like. Um. You’n Newt. Saw you at the handfasting. Ready to – “ Vocabulary seemed to fail the demon, who made an explosive noise. “All over each other. Soon’s you could get away.”“Ah. Yeah, we’re kind of like that.”"You don' know, Ana. You don' wan' know. Things I've thought about my bes' friend doin' to me.""Tol' you. I'm from California. Try me."--from Chapter 2, "Quartet"
Relationships: Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device, Gabriel & Beelzebub, Hastur & Sandalphon
Comments: 181
Kudos: 202





	1. Duet

**Author's Note:**

> Begun on Day Four of the holiday in-law infestation. There was nothing for it but to write the ruthless smut of Chapter 1 in a halcyon moment of escape from people who are so disorganized they can't even get it together to order dinner AAAUGH. Actual narratives follow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon and an angel consider one another, after parting for the evening.
> 
>  _But no, he wants to be in this shape, sighing back against the heap of cushions he’ll burrow snakelike into later (after, he thinks), when he sleeps, looking for the dream where it all comes perfectly true. There’s a last coda of whisky beside him on the table, and he sips it, rolling the smoke and honey over his tongue while he undoes the buttons slowly, imagining:_ My darling, I didn’t know. You never said, and you must do, you know – I’m not very brave.

It makes no sense: he’s a serpent, they’re a mammalian feature (and in this gendered corporation, a vestigial one at that), so it’s absurd to notice them so much -- the way his shirt brushes over them, catches the little fountain of kinked hairs around them – at times like this, when he’s sobered, said breezy goodnights to the angel, slid off into the cold, light-latticed London night in the sleek black car. (It’s close, he could have walked, but knows his feet might not take him away again, the car’s more obedient). It’s like an octave of the sleek black creature he could still become any time he chooses. But no, he wants to be in this shape, sighing back against the heap of cushions he’ll burrow snakelike into later (after, he thinks), when he sleeps, looking for the dream where it all comes perfectly true. There’s a last coda of whisky beside him on the table, and he sips it, rolling the smoke and honey over his tongue while he undoes the buttons slowly, imagining: _My darling, I didn’t know. You never said, and you must do, you know – I’m not very brave._ He would say that, when he’s been the bravest thing in Heaven or on Earth, ready to defy the Plan, ready to Fall if came to that, knowing the whole awful price.

But now (says the narrator inside his head), we’ll imagine he felt this way all the time and didn’t dare. Is reverently bringing your body into view, one shirt button then another; _not too fast_ , opening the last one to run wondering fingers over your lines and angles, stroking these dark puckers as the air hits them (um-hmm, like this), circling one to make it tighten. Knowing that’s going to send a message to the Effort that’s tucked away down there in the jeans, never mind how he knows what to do to you, we won’t go there yet, old serpent, let’s just imagine the strokes of fingertip and palm over these small fleshy buds, down the belly (always makes his breath catch, even if it’s his own hand and he knows it’s coming). A little hard pinch, you want it to hurt, to bring up that swelling so that even the air in the room is almost too harsh a touch, what would soothe it and warm it? Would you feel those delicate, always bitten-looking, cupid’s–bow lips, the tongue that you’ve tried to watch so surreptitiously as it flicks out to lick nervously or trap a little smear of crème Anglaise? ( _Dip a finger in the whisky glass and stroke delicately, make it hurting-tight again with the cold as the air hits you once more_ ). He’d go on unwrapping slowly, buckles and zips are crude and clanking but miracles take away the anticipation of feeling yourself spring free, straining toward the touch that’s going to come. -- _May I?_ \-- _Oh dear Someone, angel, please yes_.

That’s not your hand there, not that knuckly quintet of spider legs; it’s thick and strong but lady-soft and that broad thumb is coaxing the skin back, slick already, you can’t help it, as soon as he touched you it was like this. -- _You’re so beautiful. I’d like to give you all the pleasure there is, let me, don’t do a thing._ But you will, once he’s had you like this. You’ll get your turn, it makes you harder thinking about it. Take a finger in your mouth and tongue it as you draw it back out again, slowly, whisky fumes still rising into your head, the fruit at the finish.

The hand’s making a tight sleeve for you to fuck into, his, not yours, maybe he’d dip his head and give you the most delicate lap of that connoisseur tongue, carry the taste of your own musk back to your lips, feed it to you while you lose yourself in the rhythm. He’ll want to draw it out for you, and you wish he could, but that’ll be for another time, you’ve wanted this too long, you were on the edge at the first touch. Hand behind your head, pull your hair the way he would, didn’t he say the other day that growing it longer suited you? (Think of anything but what the hand’s doing, try to make it last.) So you did, did he notice? Oh, Someone, breathing this way sounds so crude, so ugly, it’s almost a hack in your throat, but his hand’s on you ( _his, not yours),_ you’re clutching him for safety while the stroking takes you like a boat over a flume, breaks you up, carries you away in the rushing currents. You’ll tell him you love him then, you won’t be able to help it, those closely guarded words will spill from you along with everything else.

There are tears on the pillow covers when he finally moves, minutes later. Stickiness cooling on his belly. He takes another sip of the whisky.

He doesn’t know why he does it. He always feels so empty afterward.

He’ll do it again, after the next time he says goodnight.

* * *

It’s in his lips, oddly, where he feels the yearning; he supposes it’s something to do with seeing that agile tongue flicker, half a bottle down when the serpent is coming out; he wonders if the demon realizes how bonelessly he sinks into the cushions – almost coiled, looking like something you’d want wound around you, squeezing. The tongue, oh yes. He imagines it tasting him: licks a finger, draws it across the curve of his lower lip, the quirked bow of the upper, little shuddering breaths and tremors running through him involuntarily. _He’d flutter over your lips just the way those breaths flutter, hold down the lower one to open you and taste you, wouldn’t that be good? You’ve looked at him while you licked a sliver of pudding off a silver fork, wondering where his eyes were resting behind those blank lenses, could he know you wanted to be licking it off his palm and not the Ritz’s cutlery?_ If he did, there was no hint. Just a dream. _But let’s dream it_.

 _There behind the ear. He’d kiss you there, where it would ripple right through you_. There’s always a shivery gooseflesh moment when the barber’s clippers come close to that tender little estate at the nape, prickling hairs that no one sees rising along his arms (he’d let the serpent ease the linen shirt over his shoulders and down, so that the flickers could move down his throat, along his collarbones). _You’d be like this_ , head back, on the couch (right here, where it’s still a little warm from his presence), limbs spread as you never do when he’s with you (well, maybe when you’re both very drunk, too drunk to manage anything, maybe that’s the point). He’d ravish your mouth gently, the yellow eyes hooded, unfocused, radiating lust himself, he’s practically lust on two legs as it is. He’d drop a hand to those antique trousers, rest it there on the thigh, stroke one of those long fingers up the inseam, _what’s this here? Found your sword again after all these centuries?_ – There’d be laughter, and a little gentle mocking, in that honey voice that could corrupt a saint; a bad angel hasn't got a chance. He’d taste like whisky and woodfires, and that hair, he can’t leave it the same for three weeks running, it was almost down to his shoulders again tonight, you’d reach up and comb it with your fingers, tug it away and then let it fall over your face while he fills your mouth again. (I’m empty without you, fit yourself into me, I’ll be too broken with longing to move, you’ll have to do it all.) Sip the whisky, think of tasting it off his tongue.

It always feels a little wrong, reaching into trousers, sad, it’s only your own hand, silly and soft, but let’s imagine that wicked eloquent mouth, what if it were his tongue with its freight of sweet words, not your fingertip running up the length -- finding the spot where the skin rolls back, who thought of this, was She being cruel or generous?, making little dark bolts of lightning strike all the way back to your spine. (You wonder how many bones long his spine actually is, what it is to run fingers down it till you reach those serpent hips.) He’d rise to ease the nested layers of velvet and twill and linen off of you (we’ve already kicked away the shoes), make you naked here in your own shop of dead philosophers and essayists and alchemists, give them something new to record, to parse, _what does it mean when the white mercury meets the red sulfur? The primal matter dissolves and regenerates_ , here, he’d sit beside you again and pull you to him, let your head drop close to his, against his wiry shoulder, the tongue still tracing up your throat, circling your ear. Maybe settle you back against him, your leg over one of those slender thighs, he'd want to feel your weight, he's always seemed so in danger of careening off to the farthest star. _No, I'm keeping you here with me, darling_.

Those hands, so agile and slender. He'd run them over you, telling you how he loves the way you're soft here, hard there. Knowing just what to do, sixty centuries of tempting, never ask how he knows, just accept the gift. He’d have one arm holding you snug (you’re thick in the middle, padded, but the arms are long, he’d have you), the other hand still wrapped tight around -- like this, then stopping, teasing, because he's wicked and because he knows you don't want it to be over -- again a little and stopping, and you're so very ready, that tongue's found the place that makes you dig your fingers into his knee to anchor yourself and --

Ah. Hazy reality returning, the nova folding back in on itself, a dwarf star. 

Pocket handkerchief. Lights too bright for eyes that want to stay shut tight, don't want to see how alone you are in this catacomb of words.

_If you held me, if you put me back together after taking me apart, I’d sleep for you, I’d dream. I’d tell you I love you._

Maybe the next time he says goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Quartet


	2. Quartet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of conversations. There’s nothing like a woman with a listening ear.
> 
> _“See, used to have these ethereal bodies. All puuuure love.” Crowley raised both arms, waving hands vaguely upward from his collapsed position on the rug, leaning back against the edge of the couch. “Now j’st got this. ’N’ snake. Could do snake ‘f you want.”_
> 
> _“Uh – no, that’s fine,” managed Anathema, who’d sunk a good way into the cushions._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A complete change of tone, because this is a suite of music.
> 
> A quartet for two antiphonal pairs of voices. Readers will note I finally found a way to work the season into it.

“We’re closed! Come back tomorrow, hours’re on the sign.”  
  
“Well, cheek! Is that any way to talk to someone who let you ride in her head half way to Oxford?”

“ _Tracy!_ Oh, dear, oh dear – come in, how ever did you – “

“Well, dear, you _are_ in the directory. And Mister Shadwell knows the way. _And_ I used to do a bit of business with your neighbours there at Earthly Delights.”

“Whatever is this for?”

“Christmas, ducks. We’re sort of family, aren’t we? It feels as if I’ve known you forever. Where can I – “

“Oh, forgotten my manners entirely. Sit down, sit down. Just put everything there. I’ll make us some cocoa.”

“I wouldn’t turn down something stronger, if you have it. Been on my feet all day, we came up to do the shops. A little tot always puts my knees right.”

“Where’s the Sergeant?”

“Oh, I lost him at the Ducks And Drakes. He’s not used to spending money, it makes him stroppy. And where’s that young man of yours? I’ve got something for him too here – ”

“Young man –-? Ah – we do keep up with Adam but – “

“Oh, gammon! You know I don’t mean him, what a goose. That lovely boyfriend of yours with the dark glasses.”

“Ah – we’re not a – um – “

“Oh? That’s not how I saw it when you were in here.”

Tracy tapped her temple as if indicating that someone was a bit daft, which might have been in the subtext. She was good at ambiguous statements.

“You absolutely lit up like Brighton Pier when he turned up, made my knees go all wobbly, not that they need any help. Ta, dear, that smells lovely. Just what I need to warm up.”

“Well, things were getting a bit fraught. We needed all the help we could get.”

“That’s not what I mean, love, and you know it. Well, _be_ coy, this is a little something for him, didn’t want to leave anyone out. Show me around, this is like the British Museum.”

“Let me lock up.”

* * *

“Mppphh – ngk – Ana! how’d you get up here?”

“What kind of a witch would I be if I couldn’t get past a concierge?”

“Oh bollocks. I mean – sorry. Slept late. Come – ah – come in, haven’t tidied, wasn’t – “

“I tried calling but I just got that answering machine. Sounded like one of the old ones with the tapes, I didn’t know people still used those.”

“Sentimental sort of thing. I’ll get – what’s all this?”

“Solstice gift. Be kind, it’s my first try. It started out as cider but it sort of turned into something like metheglin.”

“ ‘ll get some glasses and we’ll figure out.”

“It’s a bit early – “

“I’ll get some glasses.”

”Oh, my, these are – you do all this?”

“Little bit of a hobby, gardening.”

“I’d never have thought.”

“Here you go.”

“Well, that’s a bit more than – “

“Cheers.... Not bad for a first try. So what brings you – don’t ‘spect you came just to –”

“Newt’s Mom. Christmas visit. I can only take so much, so I told him you’d said to come by when we were in London – “

“I did?”

“We were pretty far into the reception by then. It was right after you asked Mr. Fell to dance and then tripped over him."

"I did?"

"And Newt’s, well, still kind of spooky about you, so I came by myself.”

“Well. Ah. Glad I did. Cheers again.”

“Your aura’s looking kind of sketchy, are you all right?”

“Champion. Never better.”

“Well if you don’t – never mind. What are these? That looks like _multifolium_ and isn’t this blue borage? I’ve been wanting some in the garden, where do you – “

“Take that one. Just let me make a cutting, it’ll root.”

“You’re sure – “

“It’ll do exactly as I tell it. Just be a minute.”

“So where’s Mr. Fell -- at the shop?”

“What? Couldn’t hear you, water running.”

“Mr. Fell. This is for him - hoped I’d catch you both here, but – “

“I can, ah – take it to him.”

“Oh. Ah -- Is everything okay with you two?”

“I’m fine. He’s fine.”

“Oh – none of my business – but – “

“We’re both fine.”

“Okay. This time it turned somersaults.”

“What?”

“Your aura. I might not be Agnes, but you were holding hands at Tadfield – “

“It was a rough day – “

“ – and you came to the handfasting together, so –”

“Well, I’ll always give him a ride. – _Ana?_ ”

“Phffff. Aaack, ccck, sorry. Just reminded me of something Newt said, only he wasn’t talking about Dick, ah, Turpin – just popped out" -- for some reason this made her giggle harder -- "phfft, not used to – “

“Ah, have some more. Festive season. Good stuff, got a talent, you.”

“Ah, maybe I’ve earned it after the last three days. Cheers.” She took a long swallow. “This place is amazing. Show me around?”

* * *

“And _then_ he said – Oh, ta, love, don’t mind if I do – _then_ he said _Tell me noo, Jezebel, are there any muir wee guests in yer head or_ – “

“Does he still call you that? It seems dreadfully – ck – rude.”

“Oh, ducks, it’s just a pet name. You two have pet names, don’t you?”

“I told you – “

“Oh dear, yes, I’m meant to pretend – What's this?”

“Astrolabe. It measures the altitudes of Celestial bodies – whatever is so funny?”

“You said that’s what you had. Celestial bodies. Solid enough, aren’t you?”

“My _dear_! I’ll have you know that waistcoat – “

“Oh, don’t be so huffy. Pour yourself another.”

“Well, it is Christmas. – Cheers.”

* * *

“Church. Bombed in th’ Blitz. Got it bombed m’self. Went back ‘n’ got this later. Memento.”

“Why’n’t it blow up – ?”

“Selective. Very selective bomb. Got Nazis. Missed us.”

“Where were you?”

“Inna church. With him. Had to watch him like a hawk. Always have to. 'd’ walk right off a cliff ‘f I didn't.”

“I’m not processing this.”

“Finish that off. Here, I’ll open a fresh – ”

“What’re all these?”

“Star maps. Like to keep track of my work.”

“Is this going to make more sense when I’m sober?”

“Almost ran off once. Back to the scene of my crimes. Tried to take him with me.”

“For someone who’s not special to you he sure seems special... You know, it’s 2019. No one’s going to care. You should see California.”

“Have done. Gold Rush. Lots of business trips. Le’s go over here, siddown.”

“Good idea.”

* * *

“And, well – I always think when I’m away from him that I’ll say something and then when he’s here – when I try to think of the words – “

“Oh, love, it’ll come. Just start. I saw the way he looked at you. Like he wanted to wrap you up and take you home.”

“Well, he hasn’t. It’s been quite a while, you know.”

“How long?”

“Six thous’n years, give or take.”

“Well there it is. If he’s not moved on – “

“ ‘t’s not like that. We’re just – only people like us on this plane. Only ones who wouldn’t go along with – Doesn’t mean.”

“But you wish it did. I remember you thinking about him on the ride up to Tadfield. It got quite warm in there.”

"You can't imagine."

"My dear, of all the people who _can_."

“He’d laugh. Look at me.”

“I’m looking, love. You seem quite the morsel. No experience?”

“Ah – that’s a bit – “

“Personal? Don’t forget, I’m all about the personal. D’you want kissing lessons, then?” Finger on the Cupid’s-bow lips. “Well, I won’t. I’m a married lady now, and you’re quite adorable, but I know I’m not your type. Well, just the tip of your nose. You’re all pink. Oh, he’d eat you with a spoon.”

“Bit more of this?”

“I can tell you need it.”

* * *

“See, used to have these ethereal bodies. All _puuuure_ love.” Crowley raised both arms, waving hands vaguely upward from his collapsed position on the rug, leaning back against the edge of the couch. “Now j’st got this. ’N’ snake. Could do snake ‘f you want.”

“Uh – no, that’s fine,” managed Anathema, who’d sunk a good way into the cushions.

“Made stars, Ana. ‘N’then they took it all away. F’r askin’ few questions. Boom. Headfirst ‘nto th’pit. Long dive. Had time to recite th’names’ve all th’stars I’d made. Used to do that. Then this.”

His gesture encompassed his human corporation and possibly the flat and all the earth, depending on how you interpreted it.

"Don' ev'n know what species t'be."

“I’m just drunk enough to buy into this.”

“ ‘S’true. Stars, pit, snake, this.” His long-fingered hands scrubbed up the sides of his head, dark glasses long discarded, spiking his hair in all directions. “ ‘N’ then there was only him. He was kind. No one else was kind. Dunno when I – “ he trailed off.

“When what?”

Anathema extended her arm imperiously, empty glass in her hand. Crowley glugged in another tot of the metheglin.

“Dunno when I started to want him. Like this.”

“Like…?”

“Like. Um. You’n Newt. Saw you at the handfasting. Ready to – “ vocabulary seemed to fail the demon, who made an explosive noise -- “all over each other. Soon’s you could get away.”

“Ah. Yeah, we’re kind of like that.”

“He can’t want that from me.”

“How d’you know? ‘Mean, why not?”

“Phfhff. Umm. Demon. Carnal lust. Not pure angelic light. Didn’t even Fall after flipping Heaven off. Perfect. Sublime.”

“He ate three slices of the Dobosh torte.”

“Ngk?”

“Pretty carnal.”

“Hah.”

“So you could, you know. Try."

"You don' know, Ana. You don' wan' know. Things I've thought about my bes' friend doin' to me."

"Tol' you. I'm from California. Try me."

"An' now there's nothin' 'n the way and-- "

"How long?“

“Since Eden. Think maybe it was then.”

“Then what?”

“Star’ed feelin– that way – ah, sorry. Just kin' of fell over, there.”

“”It’s OK. Just rest your head. Hair’s a mess.”

“Feels nice. See, if he did that – “

“I know.”

“ 'd combust. You, just makes me sleepy. ‘M’ sorry, don’t mean to – “

“Shush. You know, Newt and I'd only known each other an hour. And look how well that turned out.”

“Well. Six thous’n years, gets more difficult. Baggage. ‘N he’s all so – buttoned up. Wrapped tight.”

“Maybe h’wants y’to – ummm. Seize him. Y’know. Make him all swoony.”

“Might smite me. _Get thee behind me foul fiend_ , ‘n’that. D’wanna be smote. Smat.”

“Shocked. You big bad demon. Cream puff. Weenie.”

“ Can’t chance it, the way he’d feel every time he looked at me. If he knew. If’t’s only me. Might hate me f'rever and then where am I? Only real friend for most of history.”

"You've got us. Know it's not the same, but we care 'bout you. All in that together." Her hands moved in an uncertain way that somehow described the collision of prophecy and defiance at Tadfield Airbase.

"Yeah. We did it together."

“He’s still here after all this time. Bet he knows y’love him. If we had six thousand years I’d want Newt to love me like that.”

“Y'r’ a good friend, Ana. Good friend. _Mmmmph._ ”

“I’d hug you too but y’got my legs – _aaaah_!”

“ _Ssssssss!!!!!”_

“Aah, not scared’ve snakes, just didn’t expect – “

“ _Sssss._ Sorry. Happens sometimes.”

* * *

"Oh will you look at the time. I've got to get back to the Ducks and Drakes, promised we'd get the train in an hour."

"So it's going well with the sergeant then?"

"Oh, he’s the dearest old bear. So protective. I think every morning he tells me 'o _ch, Jezebel, bein' too generous and trustin' will be yer downfall._ ' Then every night tells me he'd be... lost without my kindness. If he could only hear himself."

"I -- can imagine -- "

"Oh, ducks, have I made you sad?"

"No-- it's just..."

"Oh come here. Here, I've got a hanky."

" _Achoo!_ What ever is _that_?"

"Dior, I think."

"You need to meet my barber."

* * *

"Agh. Lost track of time... Ah -- you okay? Mister Crowley?"

"Mph. Anthony. Call me Anthony."

"Anthony, I gotta meet Newt 'n an hour -- whoof! Room's moving -- get your head off my leg, gotta get up -- "

"Wossit like? Bein' married. Funny, here all this time, never asked anyone."

"Ah -- well y'know. Day to day. Cleaning out the fridge. Sappy feelings. Each other's bad moods. Have big fights 'n then wake up and realize how much I love him. Safe, feeling he'll always be there."

"Sounds -- kinna familiar."

"He's never seen me like this. Never _been_ like this."

"Lemme help. Think I can. Never did someone else."

"Wha-- eek!"

"There y'go. Cold sober. Hang on -- be fine --"

"Next time _warn me!"_

"See now, made y'mad -- "

"Oh shut up, you big creampuff. Take" -- _smeck_ \-- " _that_. And call in next time you come to see Adam."

Crowley was still holding a hand over his astonished cheek as she strode toward the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Nocturne
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


	3. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs that pass in the night.
> 
> Or, Get out of bed and look out the damn window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've clearly gone off the deep end here, but I write what the voices in my head tell me to write.
> 
> Pinky swear I won't do this again.

**1\. Sanctuary (An Angel In the Streets)**

There was that single sacred night,  
Poised between fear and victory,  
When it seemed as if time had stopped,  
There in your sanctuary.

Eden had grown its own wall,  
You had drawn the stars from their canopy;  
And you were there, just out of reach  
On the knife edge of Eternity.

It could cut us apart or cut us away  
From the freight of history, --  
And which, we were powerless to know  
Till we left that sanctuary --

Exchanging flesh untouching, holding the earth  
By opposite ends of its axis, through water and fire,  
And I could harrow Hell, but feared to drown  
In the greedy currents of my own desire;

And I stand beneath your window, the world’s own fool,  
Remembering Hell’s wrath and Heaven’s fury,  
That I would brave again to join hands in the dark  
And embrace, and be made free in your sanctuary.

**2\. Alchemy (A Demon In The Sheets)**

Sleep is the greatest alchemist:  
(Wrap one arm round the pillows, imagine them into his form.)  
Burrow in, a little melancholic, a lot pissed,

(Just down and ticking, think of it living and warm.)  
Bury your need, the longings lodged in the bone:  
You’ve always been quick to protect him from every harm 

Save that of your own desire, stubborn as stone.  
Imagine the hands you’ve seen cup thousands of glasses;  
Open deckled pages, or a bottle of old Beaune,

Reverently opening you, reading your sentences,  
Lifting you to touch lips, take you on the palate,  
Roll you over a tongue full of unspoken promises.

White mercury meets red sulfur, and the blackness that  
Follows yields _elixir vitae,_ solemnizes  
The merging of flesh with spirit, and yet

Cannot transmute desire into waking truth:  
The work needs darkness; the dream escapes the net.  
Put it away. Let it go on a slowing breath.

London’s outside the window, he’s there in that dark;  
Take what you can get, the same night covers you both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Scherzo  
> Some premature wagers placed in the Celestial bleachers.
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


	4. Scherzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Scherzo_  
>    
> _2\. a fast-moving humorous composition that may or may not be part of a larger work._
> 
> Heaven and Hell are concerned with the balance of power. Or, maybe, just trying to settle a bet. It makes for strange bedfellows.
> 
> _“You ever think about doin’ it with a demon?”_
> 
> _“Don’t be ridiculous.”_
> 
> _“ ‘E’s got a great bloody throne in there, the posh bastard. All gold and lions’ heads and red velvet. ‘Magine bendin’ a demon over that.” Hastur’s grin was the more obscene for looking as if it had never belonged on his face and never would._

“He’s gotta go up eventually.”

This was Hastur, who was on his third cigarette and tugging a woolen cap down over his ears. It annoyed the frog.

They were staked out at the corner on the diagonal from Crowley’s upscale Mayfair building, coils of vapor from their unnecessary breath – they’d have looked a bit odd without it – mingling with the pungent exhalations of the filterless Gauloises the demon Duke preferred. For a moment it had looked as if the intermittent surveillance might finally be about to pay off – that was unmistakably the rogue angel Aziraphale standing on the pavement beneath a lamp standard – but he hadn’t moved in several minutes. This was a poser.

“How many times have we done this?”

“Least he turned up this time. Boss might be right.” Hastur flicked away the smoked-down butt and heel-ground it with expressive disgust.. “Third. Gonna be the third.”

“Not any more pleasant for me than for you, believe me.” Sandalphon generally looked as if everything was distinctly less pleasant for him than for anyone else. Except, possibly, a bit of violence.

“Ahh, boss wants what zhe wants. Zhe figured sooner or later we’d get a hint. Comin’ back to one place or another together, canoodlin’, snoggin’ in the doorway like the humans do. I seen it enough.” Hastur took a long drag. “Reckoned they were shaggin’ myself, can’t think how else they pulled it off.”

“Yes, and everyone wants to know if that will change things. Balance of power. We both have to be here.”

“Think it’s more about your boss and my boss havin’ a wager. Them two been pretty bleedin’ chummy lately, y’ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

“I mean, how’d we test it? Slam, bam, then try out a drop of Holy Water on the poor demon’s dick and see if it gives ‘im a Prince Albert?”

There was a long, possibly reflective silence.

“He’s just standing there.” Sandalphon side-glanced as Hastur lit his fourth coffin-nail, if that’s the term to use about a smoker who’ll never have a coffin.

“He could be waitin’ for a signal or somethin’."

“Maybe they know we’re here."

“Nah. Disguised.” Hastur tapped the turned-back edge of his watch cap.

“What are those like, anyhow?”

“This?” Extending the cigarette between two fingers. “Have a go if you want."

The archangel accepted the offer gingerly, finger and thumb, drew, exhaled.

“Hm. Has something going for it.”

“Mortals got their moments. Here.”

A moment’s closer huddle while the Duke of Hell extended a fresh Gauloise to the archangel and gave him a light. A few coughs.

“I may have been missing something.”

The streetlamp on the far corner drew a faint halo around the hatless, white-gold hair of the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, who seemed lost in contemplation of the building’s façade. Sandalphon tilted his head in a general upward direction.

“You know which flat it is?”

“Yeah, I been in there. Don’t remind me.” Hastur spat eloquently. “Lost a friend, how're we to know he could throw Holy Water around?”

“How were we to know the Traitor Principality could walk through Hellfire?”

A short silence while they both drew on their cigarettes, two apparent mortals choosing, for some reason, to hold conversation on a Mayfair street corner after midnight in December, sharing smokes.

“You ever think about doin’ it with a demon?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“ ‘E’s got a great bloody throne in there, the posh bastard. All gold and lions’ heads and red velvet. ‘Magine bendin’ a demon over that.” Hastur’s grin was the more obscene for looking as if it had never belonged on his face and never would.

Sandalphon shifted from foot to foot, jostling his hands in his pockets a little. It was, definitely, cold for the human corporations they were obliged to use on this plane.

“Them two, made me wonder what it’s like with an angel. Must be somethin’ if it’s wot made _him_ turn.”

“I don’t think – “

“Ah, here we are.”

Aziraphale had stepped out of the circle of lamplight, and for a moment they lost sight of his form in the shadows; then he reappeared in the next pool of light, close to the entrance, and – passed it.

“Well buggery,” murmured Hastur. “Or not, I guess. Think ‘e rumbled us?”

“With these impenetrable disguises?”

“Ah, no need to be sarky.” The Duke peeled the watch cap back, now that their quarry was walking away, and gave the frog some air. “You really never thought about it?”

Sandalphon seemed to be discreetly adjusting himself.

“ ‘Cos I could use a reward for puttin’ up with this bollocks.”

“And what if we test the theory out on you after?”

The grin widened again. “You got to send for Holy Water. I can do this.”

Hastur popped a finger in his cheek, sending out a miniature rocket-exhaust of Hellfire. Sandalphon’s nostrils flared.

“Little bit of danger gets you goin', hah?”

The Archangel seized Hastur’s arm as the flame sputtered out, yanking him around in a half-Nelson wrestler’s grip.

“You might not like what happens if you _get me going.”_

“And _you_ oughta know, I like it rough.”

“Then I’m your angel.”

“Sod this for a lark, then. I know a place.”

* * *

A Lord Of Hell walked into a Starbucks in Soho and ordered a caramel brulee latte and an espresso macchiato, both _venti._ This is not the opening line of a joke.

“What’s this?” said Gabriel when zhe reappeared, tucking zhirself into the shop entry where they’d been standing for the past couple of hours to get out of the wind.

“It’szz coffee. The mortalszz use it to keep awake. Crowley iszz fond of it.”

“One of yours, then.”

“I’m not szzure. I szzimply got it becauszze it is hot.”

“The sea monster on the cup looks like one of yours."

Lord Beelzebub shivered, pulling the slouch hat that concealed zhir faceted red fly-eyes further down over zhir ears. Zhe wore fingerless gloves and a red fleece cape that gave a slight effect of a Christmas elf.

“Szo long as it warms us, I do not care. How do the mortalszz stand this?”

“Well, they could have tried not fucking Falling.” Gabriel seemed indifferent to the weather, sleek in lavender muffler and pale beige overcoat.

“Crowley did good work.”

“And if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t be out here right now freezing your – whatever-it-is-you've-got off.”

“A wager iszz a wager, Archangel.”

“I’m at least as concerned with what it means to Ineffable diplomacy. If someone can spike our traditional weapons we both need to know how, and if it’s as simple as you seem to think…”

“You jusszzt want to be right. You’ll szzee.”

“I can’t believe that even Aziraphale – he’s gone a little native, sure, but … He’s always been such a sissy, frankly. I think he’d pass right out if a demon came on to him. Not to mention I’d bet a red-blooded demon would prefer corrupting someone a bit more… virile.” Gabriel’s eyebrows lifted, a gesture which might have been lost considering the breadth of the slouch hat.

“Oh, Archangel, after all theszze centuries, do you not know how temptation is accompliszzhed? It is nothing szzo crude as a blunt advance.” Zhe blew on the surface of the macchiato, creating updrafts of steam that filled the entry. “The object of the temptation believeszz it is his own idea all along. And Crowley was the beszt of us. Do not forget the job that he was chosen to do, out of all the legionszz of Hell... _SSZZZZZ!_ That burned.” Zhe pursed zhir lips – it made zhir look like a little Goth gamin – and whistled several panting breaths. “Are we really sending our people up here in these rickety mortal corporationszz? Pitiful.”

“I don’t know, Lord B. If I said yours has a certain charm, would you hold it against me?”

Zhe gave him a sharp sidelong look, intercepting a playful, indeed, cheesy smirk.

“I’d say keep me warm, but Hellfire would hardly do.”

His camel-hair-clad arm went around zhir shoulders.

“That isszzz better.”

“We’ll look a bit more plausible. People come here to perform mating rituals.” This was undeniable. They’d witnessed several in the course of tonight's stakeout. Music blatting periodically from the doors of clubs suggested that quite a few more might be in progress.

“We’ll give it some more time. Three nights watching. That was the wager.”

“Three nights, three hourszzz.”

“Admit it, you were wrong. We’re not going to see them falling all over each other.”

“Everyone elsze here is.” Which was fairly true; an agreement was clearly being struck up by the nearest lamp standard and, despite the cold, a couple glinting with ear and eyebrow piercings drifted under the awning of their doorway just in time to pull up short.

“Find your own,” suggested Gabriel, pulling the Lord of Flies closer.

“Rich toff,” they heard the possibly male member of the couple spit as they retreated.

“Archangel.”

Zhir voice was a bit muffled against the camel-hair coat. Gabriel looked up.

A rather downcast Principality was ascending the steps of A. Z. Fell’s. Alone.

“Well,” said Gabriel smugly.

“Yessszzz. Well.”

The distant sound of the door chimes reached them and cut off abruptly as the door fell shut. Faint lights reached the windows.

“I believe you owe me a forfeit, Lord of Flies.”

“Hell keepsz its bargains. What iszz your choice?”

Gabriel simpered down at zher.

“Perhaps _we_ should try the experiment.”

“Of…?”

“Coy for a demon, aren’t you… come to Papa Archangel, little flykins… _Aaaaaahgggggggggghhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finale: Romanze
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


	5. Romanze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _romanze_  
>    
>    
> 1\. Music
> 
> A composition of a tender or lyrical character; especially a slow instrumental piece or movement.
> 
> _He’s close behind the angel, close enough to breathe in his scent as he stretches to hand down the slim green volume that Aziraphale can’t quite reach. It’s all right, isn’t it? just to close his eyes and put that in his memory book for later (after we say goodnight again, there’ll always be a later). Only his traitor body, tripped up (romantic getaways? He remembers sharing a jug of bad wine at the mouth of a tent in Wessex, looking back at the fur bedroll, looking away again), wants later to be now, and when he opens his eyes the angel’s looking over his shoulder, blue and steady, one hand on the book. His expression says everything, most of all that Crowley's expression is saying everything._
> 
> _Oh shit. Busted. This had not been the plan._

“Crowley! What’s come over you? You’ve never done anything like this.”

“Ah – not from me. Ana dropped by yesterday.”

It’s pretty certainly a book under the wrappings, which are inscribed Blessed Solstice, and of course the angel needs another book.

“Bit of a coincidence. I’ve got something for you. Tracy said to, ah, pass on her love.” Aziraphale rummages in the desk, fishing up a small, elegant matte-black box tied with a gold cord.

“S’pose it had to happen. Antichrist walks the earth, now we’re exchanging Christmas gifts, might be End Times after all.”

“What’s that?”

“Tadfield Metheglin. For later.”

“I do think that if anyone can find a book that I haven’t, it might be Anathema.”

But it’s a modern publication, in soft covers, and the angel’s expression is slightly puzzled as he reads the inscription on the fly-leaf. Crowley, never one to wait for permissions (except in that one thing, that one unmentionable thing) reaches to see.

“ _Romantic Getaways in Wiltshire and Dorset_?”

_Newt and I found a lovely place here. Hope you do too._

Their eyes meet for just a few seconds too long. The angel looks flustered. Crowley tries for a save.

“Um. She did seem to have some idea that we…”

“Well, you did fall on me at the wedding. It might give people the idea…”

“Idea. Yeah. Mortals’re like that, gossipping, always made the tempting easier…” He stops himself before melting down into full babble. “See what we’ve got here.” Whatever’s in the box can’t possibly be as awkward as the book.

“I think it was meant as a – what’s the expression, _gag gift –_ always assumed that was one of yours – if it’s anything like what she gave me – “

Crowley’s ears have turned a seasonal shade of crimson.

“Uh, yeah. Mean, she had you in her _head_ , must’ve thought it was a laugh to give you this, ah, sort’ve thing – “

“Quite.”

“Always surprise y’, humans – no wonder I’ve got so little to do – “

“Well, you’ve not got _anything_ to do really now, have you? No Armageddon – off the duty roster, plenty of time to fill – I’ll have you reading next – “

“”Ah. Reading. That’d be just the thing.”

“Crowley, are you well?”

“Tip-top, angel – never been fitter – “ Ouch, That was the wrong word to use. “New world, do new things. Was wonderin’ the other night – got a section on alchemy, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale's looking up rather sharply over his spectacles; he's still a little flustered but now, also, flattered, good, it’s a distraction. “A bit arcane. What brings this on?”

“Ah, used to go drinking with Paracelsus, was thinking about it last night. Miss that crazy old bastard.” Invention on the fly is a specialty.

“Odd, my mind had been running on the same subject lately – I do believe I have a gloss on Paracelsus, attributed to Pare – a bit of an obscure place to start, are you sure you wouldn’t rather some early edition Fielding? Very racy for the time, I have an almost pristine copy of _Joseph Andrews,_ though I must insist you read it here – “

“Ah – maybe somethin’ you’d let me take home.” _Get me out of here right now, oh all you spirits of literature –_

“Well – I do have this carton of _paperbacks”_ (the shudder is almost audible) “that people _will_ keep leaving off at the door as if I were an Oxfam shop” – He’s bustling to the back of the shop as he speaks. “I believe there were even some spy thrillers – your sort of thing – let’s see what we have here – quite a lot of these, what do they call them, bodice-rippers – “

This is not helping.

“ _Honestly_ , they could hire more educated artists.” _A Spinster’s Passion_ boasts the cover illustration of a woman whose spinsterishness is presumably indicated by a lace-covered bosom and the spectacles she holds in one hand, while using the other to halfheartedly fend off a tall Regency buck in a cutaway. “Really, knee breeches had quite gone out of fashion by the time those dresses were popular, you remember how we – well, I suppose this isn’t your sort of thing at all, is it – “

It’s a Crowley-worthy stream of babble, and it surges on while Crowley examines the offending paperback cover. The woman is blond, and buxom under the cream-coloured dress, which is sashed with pale blue and exposes plump arms in the fashion of the day. There’s actually a fallen book lying against the hem, presumably dropped in alarm, and this mass market cover painting should _not_ be having the effect it’s having, nor should it give him ideas about the best imaginable way to stop that firehose of blethering. “Maybe that box on the top shelf. There’s some library steps at the end of this stack, or can you – “

“Lessee.” He’s just that much taller.

He’s close behind the angel, close enough to breathe in his scent as he stretches toward the battered wine box that Aziraphale can’t quite reach. It’s all right, isn’t it?, just to close his eyes for a second and put that in his memory book for later ( _after we say goodnight again_ , there’ll always be a later). Only his traitor body, tripped up (romantic getaways? He remembers sharing a jug of bad wine at the mouth of a tent in Wessex, looking back at the fur bedroll, looking away again), wants later to be _now_ , draws it out too long, and when he opens his eyes the angel’s looking over his shoulder, blue and steady. His expression says everything, most of all that _Crowley's_ expression is saying everything.

Oh shit. Busted. This had not been the plan.

For once, the tongue that changed the course of Creation can’t find words. Worse, he can’t make himself step back. They’ve been this close before, face to face just like this (the angel’s turning slowly, probably wants to slink away), but before, he could hide what he was feeling with anger and violence, now there’s only –

Aziraphale closes the gap, and kisses him. Softly, chastely, but with breath fluttering against his cheek like the idea of a butterfly, hands on his arms as if uncertain whether to draw hiim closer or push him away.

It’s only the corner of his mouth at first, barely even a touch, but enough to divert blood from his brain to someplace a lot more primitive in three or four hard pulses that seem as if they should make a sound.

It’s not the kiss he’d dreamed of at this moment, because it feels as if Aziraphale might flutter apart at the least pressure; he’s trembling like a low-frequency wave, and the heart that he doesn’t need is battering against the inside of his ribs so hectically that Crowley can feel it in his own chest. The slow softness of their mouths together is a thing that hasn’t featured in his lonely imaginings, but he wants more of it.

They stay joined like that, almost without moving, for several seconds, and the angel’s eyes are closed when they break the kiss.

“I probably ought to admit I actually do read the bodice rippers,” he quavers.

An incredible thought occurs. “Angel,” Crowley says, resting hands on the broad, round shoulders,“you _have_ done something like that before, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale manages a nod. Eyes still not opening. In a very small voice he says, “But never with _you_.”

When they kiss again it’s longer, less tentative. As they break apart once more he lifts the sunglasses away from his face, sets them carefully on the bookshelf, and begins to sip his way over the angel’s upper lip, his lower, his eyelids, his cheeks.

He’d be worried that this is something Aziraphale doesn’t want the same way that he does, but evidence to the contrary is becoming apparent against his thigh. Those tremors aren't fear or uncertainty, he realizes; they're desire, wound up to an almost crippling pitch. He doesn't know why he's so eerily calm -– it's the last thing he ever expected to be -- except that Aziraphale _isn't,_ and the old instinct to protect means even more than how very much he wants (and he does want).

There’s no resistance when he undoes that blessed tartan tie (it’s also set down carefully), the old-fashioned collar, the first pearl button; pauses to ask “This okay, angel?” because closed, blue-lidded eyes and all but motionless limbs don’t send a clear message. But when he finds Aziraphale’s hand and catches it there’s a squeeze and the angel’s head tilts back to let thin lips rove over that soft column of neck.

“Like this?” he says, flicking the waistcoat buttons open one by one ( _I dreamed of you doing this to me_ ), down to the lower hem where it’s soft and threadbare and the flesh beneath it is generous and warm. “I won’t rip.” Touches his lips to the little cup between the clavicles, tongues it gently. Aziraphale’s breath hisses between those small, perfect front teeth and lower lip. The little bulge of belly is quivering with slow, shuddering breaths. He undoes the shirt buttons to palm it, brushes knuckles lower, past the place where the twill waistband cinches the soft flesh. “Promise y’won’t smite me?”

“ _Please.”_

But it almost undoes him, when Crowley’s knuckles slide down and find what’s trapped against his thick thigh, skate along its length. For a moment it seems Aziraphale’s really going to swoon, _definitely_ not the desired effect, and Crowley brings both hands back up to his face, cups the flushed cheeks and whispers into a soft kiss: “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”

That couch of so many nights talked away, drunken to oblivion, is only a few paces distant, and Crowley dips to lift his angel under one knee and one arm, tilts him back against the scuffed cushions to lie with one leg trailing to the floor, one hand in Crowley’s hair. The shirt falls away from his soft stomach. It’s plush, a long vee of curled candyfloss hairs tapering down from the pale rosettes of his nipples, and Crowley kneels and rubs with his cheeks like a whisker-marking cat, tongues more little kisses into the tender flesh, before thumbing open the fastenings of the twill trousers. You don’t spend six thousand years on earth as a demon without learning a little about what he’s going to do next, but it’s never meant so much to him to get it right.

“Can I do this, angel?”

A hand squeezes his shoulder, _yes yes._ He works the buttons open one by one, slowly enough that there’s time to say stop but there’s only a faint wordless whine, well, angel, what a little hedonist you are, silk underthings. What he finds when he lowers them is thick enough that there’s a flash of gooseflesh when he imagines it opening him, another thing that hasn’t been in the nightly (if he’s going to honestly admit it) B-roll he’s been running lately, but which he thinks had better get into the queue. There’s a single clear drop at the tip, and he hears a hiss of breath as he tongues that away, breathes in the scent of the angel, and then he’s engulfed it -- the serpent swallowing its prey whole, all refinement gone.

It’s abruptly as direct and no-nonsense as what a businesslike whore would do in a dark doorway; the angel’s ready to explode, he can already feel the extra pulse thumping against his lips that says _close close very close._ The door’s unlocked, anyone could walk in, and he just bloody doesn’t _care_. Apparently, neither does Aziraphale, who’s found his voice but not any articulate syllables.

There’s a string of moments that seem drawn out though they’re not, there’s a little work about it when you’re already at this point, not losing the beat, good thing breath is strictly speaking dispensable. The angel’s already pulled out a couple of hairs but never mind, and he tastes like salt and seaweed and fresh sweat, there’s going to be more where that came from in a moment, and he feels the hesitation – _if you keep on it’s going to – I’m going to_ – He answers yes the only way he can, another squeeze of that fleshy thigh, then fumbles and clutches the hand that meets his on a faint wail of Oh God. (The shop’s still standing, so it must be all right with Her.) He lifts his head away, losing a little, never mind, he wants to see the angel’s face and –

Bang. Disorienting. They’re in a tangle of limbs in, surprisingly, his own bed, and the angel’s still holding up one hand in the act of snapping, looking unbelievably undressed despite still having on more clothing than Crowley’s worn at any one time since the nineteenth century.

He pushes a little way up off the bed. The blue eyes are looking into his. Silence for a long moment.

The thing that makes this more real than any other detail is that so far as he can tell, the angel’s completely forgotten about locking up his shop. Crowley attends to the matter.

“I hope I -- ah -- didn’t presume,” says Aziraphale, doing his best imitation of himself being prim and formal, which would work if he weren't still catching his breath every third syllable. “I do have a bed, but there are, well, books stacked all over it at the moment, you know how rarely I – “

He can’t decide whether to laugh or kiss him then, ends up doing both, and realizes Aziraphale is tasting himself out of Crowley’s mouth the way he’d taste a sauce or a ganache ( _I dreamed of tasting myself on your tongue_ ), and it’s too much and he bears the angel down to the bed.

Making all the clothes go away takes a while, but it’s pleasant getting there. At one point he tastes salt on Aziraphale’s temples, by the corners of his eyes, as he looks for a place he hasn’t kissed yet, feels the angel lifting his hair in a fan and dropping it almost strand by strand to brush along their cheeks. He’s between the arms of Heaven, which may have flung him out but is reclaiming him in Aziraphale’s shape, and between its strong legs too, what do you know, he has done something like this a few times, pulling him closer to – There. _Oh._

“Please,” says Aziraphale.

He decides there is nothing he will not do if his angel says _Please._

* * *

Two archangels sit opposite one another in a luxury corner office in Heaven, their Celestial bodies destitute of trousers. A junior angel sworn to silence periodically refreshes cold compresses soaked in freezing-temperature Holy Water (it’s the work of a moment to swish them through the upper atmosphere of Antarctica).

“Raphael says it’ll heal up if we just keep on with this,” says Gabriel, who has to rise painfully from his executive chair to situate the cold pack under his nethers. There’s a fringed throw in Heaven’s Dress Tartan preserving his modesty, if he actually possesses such a thing.

Sandalphon’s holding the thrice-folded compress over his lap, head back on the support of a secretarial swivel chair. His expression is remarkably beatific for someone treating battle wounds. As it were.

“We’ll say we were ambushed. Demons with some sort of agenda.”

“You might say that was the case.”

Gabriel has somehow brought back from the corporeal plane a faint aroma of oversweetened coffee. A scent clinging to Sandalphon is less appealing, or describable.

“And never any sign of ’em together at your end?”

Sandalphon shakes his head.

“Well. This settles it anyway. Aziraphale doesn’t have the balls for this.” Gabriel shifts his weight painfully. “Whatever they did, it wasn’t…”

Sandalphon seems miles away.

“Guess we learned our lessons, there.”

This time the balding Archangel glances over as if disturbed from a reverie. “Oh. Yes. Right.”

A rare smile plays on his lips as his head drops back.

* * *

"You were asleep for a little bit there, did you know?"

"I... Yes. I was... a bit afraid I'd dreamed it, for a moment..."

"Nope. Here, 'll prove it." It's a soft, slow kiss, but it's got the promise of _much more, and very soon_ woven through it.

Blue eyes meeting amber, fixing this in the memory book that's opened to a chapter titled _The Rest of Forever._

“Whatever was in Tracy’s gift? You looked so uncomfortable.”

“Ah… it _was_ sort of embarrassing.”

“Mine was too. She’s… unique.”

“Um… looked like something we might enjoy, though.”

It’s the angel’s turn to blush a little. They’ve settled face to face, lying on their sides, tangled a little in the down comforter – Crowley’s an aficionado of warmth – running fingertips over each other’s hair, collarbones, jawlines. Just now the angel’s wondering hand is roving over Crowley’s chest and belly -- ruffling the sparse hairs, tracing the shapes and textures -- and what he feels isn’t the shivering eagerness of his nighttime imaginings, but the desire to purr like a cat.

“She did mention doing a bit of business at Earthly Delights.”

“Maybe in one of those _romantic getaways?”_

“Well, possibly…”

“Let’s just start simple, angel.” Crowley kisses the fingertips of the angel’s stroking hand, one by one. “Work up.” A thoughtful pause. “So... wait a minute, when you handed me that gift box, you’d already seen – “

“Ah – yes.”

“And I’m supposed to be the demon... You were in a rush to get back in the stacks, now I think."

“Well, it did seem to move things along. I believe the Americans use the phrase ‘Hail Mary pass’.”

“Hell assigns you ten Paternosters.”

“How would those go?”

A silence.

“I was still -- you must know -- quite awfully frightened. I thought you wouldn’t want me like this,” says Aziraphale.

“I thought you’d hate me.”

They find a way to fill another longish silence.

“What gave you the nerve? When you kissed me.”

“...Um. Something Tracy said. About you looking at me as if you wanted to wrap me up and take me home. And when I turned around, that was…”

They settle closer.

“Anathema said something about being married. Bad moods, day to day, realizing how much it matters… Seemed like we had all of it already, except this. And the married part.”

“Should we, do you suppose?”

“One thing at a time, angel. We’ll sort it out as we go.”

* * *

Beelzebub passes the schnapps. Zhe doesn’t usually spend social time with the Duke of Hell, but it’s been a rewarding night on the mortal plane.

“I don’t think we’ll have any trouble with Heaven for a while.”

“All for the trouble, m'self.”

"Clearly the puzzle remainszz unszzolved..."

"Mmmm?"

“Angelzz are idiotszzz. I told him exzzactly what I was doing and he sztill…”

But Hastur’s not listening; he’s got a relaxed glow that’s completely unlike him, even the frog looks smug. After a distant moment he returns to the present, takes a long pull, passes the bottle back.

“I’ll exzzpect you to preszzent at the staff meeting.”

“Skippin’ this one, boss.” He leans back in the swivel chair. “Gotta date.”

_finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've ever winged a chaptered fic without knowing exactly how the later sections would play out (and the first time I've ever written while dodging way too many houseguests)! 
> 
> If you liked, share, reblog, comment! Authors are always thirsty :)
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tadfield Metheglin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567387) by [CopperBeech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech)




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